There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. This time they would call it murder. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. And, whatever you may think, I assure you, Jack's a downright goodnatured fellow. Gives you a right to hang on to the old man until he busts—practically.
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